Fletcher, I think. Jesus Christ.

Inside Zeb’s unit, the dust is settling.

This place is a real dump. Pills heaped in untidy pyramids on the shelves, a filing cabinet, its drawer hanging open like a drunk’s mouth. Papers everywhere, a few sheets still fluttering to earth.

There’s somebody here, I realise, and miss a step, catching my toe on the carpet.

‘You okay there, bud?’ says a voice. There are crossed legs and loafers sticking out of the shadows in the waiting area. Penny loafers, with actual pennies. Who is this guy? One of the Brat Pack? But the pennies strike a chord with me; I half remember something.

I cough to give myself a second, then answer, ‘Fine. Goddamn rug. Doctor is trying to kill me.’

A low growling laugh, followed by a statement I get a lot. ‘You talk weird.’

‘I get that a lot,’ I say.

‘What is it? Dublin?’

That’s pretty good. Most people get Irish, but never Dublin. ‘I’m impressed. You got relations?’

The legs uncross and stretch. ‘Nah. I work with a guy, he watches this Irish TV show on the net.’

The pennies drop. I know who this is, and all it takes is a flick of the light switch to confirm it.

Macey Barrett. One of Michael Madden’s soldiers.

Okay. This could be trouble.

We don’t really have much organised crime in Cloisters. Too small. But there’s one guy trying to upgrade from hood to boss. He spent a summer with his cousin in the Bronx and picked up some ideas on how to run an organisation.

Irish Mike Madden. Prostitution, protection and a burgeoning crystal meth business, to pull in the weekend tweakers. And here, sitting in my friend Zeb’s waiting room, is one of Madden’s boys. In the dark.

What the hell is going on?